


Sanctify the Love that You Crave

by SOMETHINREAL



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Friends With Benefits, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, Kinda, M/M, Mild Angst, songfic????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-20 22:18:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21289058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SOMETHINREAL/pseuds/SOMETHINREAL
Summary: “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s just us.”“It’s just us,” Richie repeats, more to himself than to Eddie.(alternatively, the one where eddie's gay and richie's not, but they fuck anyways.)
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, side Benverly
Comments: 9
Kudos: 169





	Sanctify the Love that You Crave

**Author's Note:**

> title from sanctify - years and years from which this is sort of based on. i tried to make this as in character as possible but if its not i apologize lol

Seeing Richie at the door of Eddie’s dorm is not an oddity. Richie will often take the liberty of showing up in the middle of the night without any notice given to Eddie, who will, as per his coding, chide him for a minute or two, then welcome him in with open arms. Eddie knows why Richie comes, and he can’t deny anything to him.

Tonight, Eddie’s waiting for his knock. He’d gotten his text ten minutes ago: a brazen _can I come over_ with no punctuation and the general feeling of haste behind it. Eddie supposes his response had been sent with the same feelings; _Whenever you want._

Eddie doesn’t mind when Richie comes over like this, hastily, unsure of what he’s doing, needing to feel. He understands what Richie is going through. He’d gone through it himself, albeit years ago. The denial, the temptation, the underlying feeling that what you’re doing is wrong even though it feels like a weight taken off your back.

Most people in Eddie’s position would feel used, like an experiment. And in a way, he supposes that is what’s happening. He can’t help it, though. He’s got a soft spot for Richie.

So, when Richie shows up, in his jeans and hoodie, skateboard tucked under his arm, shoulders hunched, Eddie lets him in.

He sits on the bed beside Eddie’s, empty from a boy who had to move back home to care for an ailing parent, and tucks his face into his hands, pushing his glasses up into his mess of hair. Eddie looks him over before walking over slowly, his feet padding against the carpet. Standing a foot away from Richie, he says Hey and places a hand on his shoulder.

Richie looks up. His glasses fall back into place. He readjusts them anyways.

Eddie cups his cheek, running his thumb across his cheekbone before moving to straddle his lap. Richie startles, suddenly looking very frantic, but Eddie holds his other cheek and makes Richie look him in the eye. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s just us.” Richie relaxes. His hands hesitantly find their way to Eddie’s waist, gripping with uncertainty even after all this time.

Their eyes lock. Scratch Massive’s Last Dance plays on low from Eddie’s open laptop, placed deliberately on his floor so that the sound will echo between the beds. Richie’s fingers are cold where they slither beneath Eddie’s sweater, but then again they’re always cold. It’s likely due to him smoking so much, but Eddie can’t complain.

“It’s just us,” Richie says, likely more to himself than to Eddie. He does that a lot. Then, he leans up and presses a kiss to Eddie’s mouth.

-

Eddie remembers, offhandedly, the first time things went down like this. It had been anticipated really, if not from the way Richie always found a way to touch him: a pat on his back, a flick to the end of his nose, and Let’s arm wrestle, Eddiekins, then instead from the longing glances that Eddie always pretended not to notice.

It had always been the same, though. I’m straight, I like girls, whatever. Eddie understood it. It wasn’t as easy to accept it for Richie as it had been for Eddie, and even though Eddie has known forever, he still never had it easy. Both of their households and environments had been anything but loving and accepting.

There had been build up to it all. Richie had started getting bolder, more obvious, less caring. Only to Eddie, though. In fact, they hardly went out with one another anymore unless they were with one of their mutual friends, because of the implication. Not that anyone would actually think anything about them from a glance, but Richie had always wanted to be cautious, even if they hadn’t had anything to be cautious about yet.

The day it happened, Richie came into the dorm room in a rush. Eddie had been putting away books he’d picked up from the second-hand store on his little shelf. It was summer. He was wearing those little shorts he wears and a shirt that rides up when he stretches. Eddie had watched curiously as he shut the door, panting. Had he ran?

“Rich, what--?”

“You’re a girl,” Richie stated, matter of fact. Probably more to himself than otherwise.

Eddie understood it. Where he’d been coming from. Eddie wasn’t hyper-masculine at all, and he dressed in pastels and painted his nails and was more blatantly feminine than most twenty-somethings. Especially, he understood the blatant denial of attraction Richie felt, but he didn’t look like a girl, not really. His hair was maybe longer than most dudes, then again by that logic so was Richie’s. Regardless, he definitely didn’t look like a girl. In fact, Eddie found it a little degrading for Richie to say that. But, if this was what it’d take for him to finally get rid of that pent up frustration he’s felt for God knows how long, Eddie’ll let him have it.

“I’m whatever you want me to be, Rich,” Eddie shrugged, inching forward.

“Can you just say it?” Richie questioned, before adding, quieter, “please?”

“I’m a girl,” Eddie said. Richie moved forward to meet him. They were toe-to-toe, now. Faces barely inches apart.

“Again.”

“I’m a girl. I’ll be your girl.”

Richie kissed him, finally.

-

Now, Richie lay with his head pillowed on Eddie’s bare chest in the spare bed. There are no sheets, save for the blanket Eddie’d stolen from his bed, which hardly covers them. There’s nothing else but a mattress cover and a pillow without its case. Eddie is drawing shapes on Richie’s back with his fingers, feeling the plains and hills, scarring from adolescent acne, the indent from that time when he’d slid backwards in the bathtub as a kid and gashed himself on the tap. Richie’s hair tickles his chin.

He’s different about it now. Richie’s gotten used to it. When they first started, he was in deep. He could never actually look at Eddie while they were doing it-- Eddie was always on his stomach, always had to muffle himself with a pillow-- so that Richie could pretend.

Eventually, things got better, easier. He didn’t mind as much. He accepted himself more. Richie took it in steps: first, they’d gradually have Eddie face him, but they’d never actually kiss during. Before, maybe, but never during, and Richie would never stay after, just haphazardly throw on his clothes and run out the door as fast as he’d come in. Then, he started staying after, just a little, and he’d steal a kiss, here and there. They’d always have to put their clothes back on if they were sharing a bed, though.

It’s different now. He doesn’t need the boundaries anymore.

“What brought it on today?” Eddie asks. He weaves a piece of Richie’s hair between his fingers. Richie hardly, if ever, wants to do this for no reason. He won’t fuck Eddie without something nagging him so much his skin crawls.

“Oh, y'know,” he says, and yeah, Eddie probably does. “Same old bullshit. My mom called me today to see if I’ve gotten myself a girl yet,” he says it in a light tone, but is clearly anything but happy. “She said she wants a bunch of little fuckin’ mini-Richies or whatever. _God_. I’m not even out of college yet.”

“You like girls, too, no?”

Richie sighs. “Well, yeah, I guess,” he says. It sounds like a lie. “But I'm preoccupied with _you_.” Eddie can already feel the backpedal coming before Richie’s even thought about what he said. “Not that anything we do is considered dating. Or that we’re mutually exclusive. We’re FWBs at best. Fuckbuddies. Just two bros giving each other brojobs. I’m preoccupied. You know what I mean by that.”

Oddly enough, Eddie does. “So, what did you tell her?”

“What any self-deprecating, shit for brains loser would,” Richie says.

“Which is?”

“That I fucked your mom, obviously. And that we’re having triplets.”

Eddie should have seen this coming, really, for however many years he’s known Richie. “Beep beep,” he says.

“I told her that I’m just focusing on my studies right now. I didn’t think that mentioning I’m boning down with Eddie ‘Wheezy’ Kaspbrak on my off time would go over well.”

“Nobody has ever called me Wheezy, and we discovered in my first year of college that I don’t have asthma, it’s actually just crippling anxiety. Also that my mother is a mentally ill person with Munchausen by Proxy.”

Richie grumbles against his chest before looking up. “Actually: one) I called you that just now, and two) just because you don’t have asthma doesn’t mean you don’t wheeze, so the nickname still applies.”

“I hate you,” Eddie says. He doesn’t mean it.

“And I you, Eddiekins,” Richie retorts, but it’s slurred by tiredness.

The conversation seems to end there. Eddie reaches down to flick off the lamp, and darkness falls over them.

-

The first time Eddie figured out what was up with Richie, they were seventeen.

They’d been sitting on the carpeted floor of Ben’s basement, a little bit drunk, a little bit high, playing truth or dare with an empty beer bottle. Eddie was beside Richie, and the other various Losers around them. It was around one am, and Eddie remembers vaguely lying about sleeping over at Bill’s house, or something, because he was the only respectable one in his mother’s eyes.

There was music playing on low, some indie band or something. Since Bev had gone last, it was her turn to spin, and with a quick flick of her wrist, the bottle spun and spun, seeming to last forever until: Richie.

“Dare,” he said before she even asked the question. Eddie scoffed under his breath. It was so much like Richie to always pick dare.

“Jeez, slow your roll, Rich, I haven’t even asked you yet.”

“Well I pick dare,” he said, making some weird taunting gestures at her. She just looked at him in awe. The rest of them seemed to collectively share a mental eye roll at his antics. “So hit me, baby.”

“Fine. I dare you to kiss the person to the immediate right or left of you. Your choice,” she says, probably in retaliation for him making her tell them her most embarrassing moment in vivid detail three rounds ago.

It’s now that Richie’s face drops. He glances to who he’d sat beside: Stan on his right, Eddie on his left. Both of whom are the actual non-straight people in the group (Stan came out to them as bi last summer. Eddie told them he thought he might be gay when they were eight).

“That is if it’s cool with the people beside you,” Bev adds.

“It’s whatever,” Stan says. “I’m drunk and don’t actually give a shit.”

“Yeah, I don’t know if I want to kiss a Trashmouth, but I’ll do it for the sake of the game.” Eddie’s joking, but Richie looks terrified.

“I’m not gay!” he says, although Eddie can tell it’s more to himself than to them.

They’d all heard the rumours, all seen the scrawlings on the wall: _RICHIE TOZIER SUCKS FLAMER COCK, RICHIE TOZIER IS A FAG, TOZIER IS A ROTTEN FUCKING QUEER_. They’d all heard people whispering, _Did you hear? Hear what? That Richie Tozier kid is a fucking fairy_. and pretended not to hear. They’d pretended not to know anything for Richie’s sake.

“I didn’t say you were,” Bev said. “You don’t have to make out with them or anything. Just a peck.” She was backtracking solely for the fact that she knew Richie may have had a breakdown if she didn’t.

“I’m not gay,” he said again. He was looking at Eddie this time. Eddie gave him a reassuring smile because he understood it now. The repression, the denial. The constant jumping at people’s throats if they so much implied that he could be anything but straight as a nail.

For a moment he thought Richie was going to choose him. Their eyes locked and Richie took a deep breath, but before Eddie could even prep himself, Richie leaned over to Stan and planted a dry kiss on his cheek. It lasted two seconds (Eddie counted) and he recoiled quickly, spinning the bottle before anyone could say anything. It landed on Mike. He chose dare.

“I dare you to do a cement mixer shot,” Richie said, and the kiss was forgotten.

-

Sometimes, they meet Bev for coffee, but just as friends. Nobody knows about what they do, not even her, even though Eddie’s almost completely sure that she’s figured it out. It’s not like Bev’s an idiot, and as much as Richie tries to hide it, he’s just bad at that stuff.

Because touching each other is seen as inherently not straight in Richie’s eyes, he tends to avoid contact with Eddie entirely in public, even if it’s accidental. If they’re walking, and their hands brush even the slightest bit, Richie’s quick to put a foot of space between them. If ever Eddie goes to pat his back, Richie will shrug him off like his touch burns.

It’s hurtful, but Eddie never says anything.

“How’s Ben?” Richie asks. He and Bev finally worked their shit out and are dating. Bev, Richie, and Eddie are currently enjoying overpriced coffee on the former’s campus.

Funnily enough, most of the Losers stayed relatively close together for college. Ben is studying architecture at Columbia with Bill, who studies English. Bev is at the Fashion Institute of Technology, while Eddie and Richie are at NYU, studying English and arts, respectively. The others, however, are out at Penn.

“He’s good, yeah, passing all his classes, which is nice. What about you guys?”

“I’m alright,” Richie jumps in first, always eager to speak. “Finally saved up enough money for decent editing software. I can make some good fucking stuff, now, which is going to do me great in my courses.”

“I’m fine,” Eddie says. “English is English. I have to write an entire essay on All My Sons tonight because I procrastinated it for three weeks.”

Bev is shaking her head, but she’s grinning. “You seeing anyone?” It’s directed at Eddie, because both of them know Richie hates that question.

Eddie eyes Richie for a brief moment, not long enough for Bev to catch it. “Nah,” he says, because he isn’t, really. Richie doesn’t count. They’re not mutually exclusive, as Richie keeps telling him, and even if he did count, Eddie wouldn’t go around saying it, even to Bev. “Too busy with school to put up with anyone, and God forbid icky feelings.”

Bev nods and sips her coffee. Richie scoffs. “You’re not going to ask me that?” he asks, and both Bev and Eddie just kind of look at him.

“We all know you hate that, Chee,” Bev says.

“Yeah, dude,” Eddie agrees, “and if anyone does ask you just say you’re banging my mom. Besides, you were weirded out by your mom asking that the other night.”

Richie swallows thickly, like Bev could even guess the context of that. “Well, it’d be nice to know you assholes want to know about my love life too.”

“Fine,” Bev says, rolling her eyes. “Are you seeing anyone, Richie?”

He eyes Eddie. “No,” he says. They leave it at that.

-

Sometimes, Richie’s constant need to mention that they are not and would not ever be a real thing hurts more than Eddie lets on. He has to keep reminding himself that this is a good thing. That he’s only helping Richie figure things out, that he doesn’t mind being used. Because why would he? He was the one who agreed to this in the first place. Eddie had agreed to help Richie figure out what was going on with his repressed sexuality. He’s the only one to blame for letting himself be used by Richie like this.

Then again, he should have thought about agreeing to this despite the feelings for Richie he's struggled with since they were kids.

It’s not like Eddie didn’t know what he was getting into. He knew as soon as Richie marched in that day that he would likely never get Richie properly. He didn’t care. Eddie thought it would be great. He’d get to have sex with the only person he’d ever really felt anything for but without all the icky feelings and complications that came with relationships such as theirs. He hadn’t realized how empty it would make him feel, for Richie to fuck him and leave, then talk to him the next day like nothing had happened.

It was almost worse when Richie started to stay, afterward, and hold him. It gave him the semblance of love without the actual weight of it.

He’s at a party, a rare occurrence for him these days, nursing some heavily spiked punch and watching Richie from afar. Richie’s got a girl stuck to his side like she’s been glued there, and he’s talking to James from his major. Eddie should not be jealous. They’re not mutually exclusive. He shouldn’t care that Richie’s probably going to take her to an unoccupied room and fuck her without enjoying it. He shouldn’t care that he knows Richie doesn’t actually want to do that, but he’s doing it anyway because he feels like he has a part to play.

That’s what Richie had told him, anyways, months ago.

“I don’t think I could do it,” he had said. He’d been smoking a cigarette by his cracked window, one of the rare times that Eddie went over to Richie’s digs instead of vice versa. He’d only gone over because Richie’s roommate had gone out and they wanted a change of scenery.

“Do what, Richie?” Eddie had asked in return. He was sitting on Richie’s unmade bed, throat a little raw, body a little sore, still shirtless, running his fingers over pink marks that would turn purple by the next morning.

“Be with a woman, properly,” he said. “I don’t know if I would enjoy it as much.” The _as I do with you_ went unsaid.

Eddie nodded, slowly. He knew Richie was gay. It was just that Richie wouldn't accept himself as such. He spent so much time trying to convince himself that he was at the very least bisexual and forcing himself into doing things he didn’t want to. It was insane.

“I feel like I need to play the part, though,” he’d admitted, stubbing the cigarette out on the ledge.

“You don’t,” Eddie tells him. “Nobody expects anything of you. You don’t have to prove yourself to anyone.”

Richie had shrugged, deflecting. He’d looked contemplative for a moment, like he was going to say something that held weight. Then, suddenly chipper: “Let’s go get dinner.”

It’s gross for Eddie to think about. Richie and a girl, the logistics of it. He thinks, privately, that Richie will probably put her on all fours so he doesn’t have to look at her while they do it, like he used to with Eddie all those months ago. Funny how the tables have turned.

Eddie watches distantly as the girl drags him upstairs by his wrist and he trudges along, his long legs allowing him to move without much haste. Not that he would move hastily regardless.

Beyond himself, Eddie decides at this moment that he’s going to get absolutely wasted, and if Richie can take someone to bed, he can too.

The guy's name is Arthur, he’s from Eddie’s English class, and he fucks harder than Eddie expects him to. He’s sweet about the whole thing though; he cleans Eddie as best he can after, and, upon hearing Eddie complain of the cold the next morning, offers Eddie one of his crewnecks, which is warm and big and worn and smells dangerously close to Richie’s cologne. It lacks the undertone of cigarettes, because, based on the charging dock plugged into his laptop on the desk, Arthur solely vapes, which makes him ten times less attractive (but only because it makes Eddie think of Richie who owns a _JUUL_, but only for convenience, as he always says).

When Eddie gets home, coffee in hand from _The Bean_, the first thing he does is pop an Advil. It feels like someone clocked him in the back of the head with a baseball bat, and everything is too loud and bright and he just wants to sit and edit his essay. His head hurts even more just thinking about it, but at least he’ll get to sit in bed for a few hours.

He’s about two paragraphs in when there’s a knock at the door. He glances at his watch: ten am. Eddie rolls his eyes, but he yells for them to come in. He always leaves the door open when he’s there because people like to pop in and it saves him the hassle of getting up every time there’s a new person.

The door creaks open. Behind it: Richie. Eddie fights the urge to huff a sigh.

The thing is: he can’t get upset with Richie. He agreed to them sleeping with other people. There’s no reason for him to be upset, especially if he’s seeing other people too. Thing is, he doesn’t want to see other people. He just feels like he has to. Because of the agreement. It’s just sad-sounding if Richie’s fucking other people but Eddie’s only fucking Richie. That makes him one of the other people.

“Hey,” Richie says. He’s significantly less hungover than Eddie is. Eddie waves half-heartedly at him, returning his gaze to his laptop. He’s not actually going to edit, he just wants to be as petty as possible without getting called out for it.

Eddie is upset.

“Um,” Richie says. “I just wanted to know if you wanted to go to _Pret_. The one down on eighth street.” Eddie knows the one. He could go for a parfait right now, but he doesn’t really want to go anywhere with Richie.

“I’m good, thanks,” he says, reaching down to hold up the muffin he bought from _The Bean_. It’s still in the bag.

“Alright,” Richie says. The awkwardness between them is thick and makes Eddie uneasy. “I’m going to go. Are you sure you don’t want anything while I’m there? I know you like the parfaits.” God damn him.

“I’m sure.”

“Cool,” he says. “Cool, cool, cool.” It’s quiet. Eddie scrolls down and types something random to make it seem like he’s working. He wants to feign uninterest as much as he can. “Is that a new sweater?”

Eddie glances down. He’s still wearing Andrew’s sweater. How the fuck does Richie know that this new? “Sort of,” he tells him. It’s not a complete lie.

“Where’d you get it?”

“This guy I was with last night,” Eddie says.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it was cold this morning and my jacket wasn’t enough, so he let me borrow it.”

“Wait, what?” Richie asks. He sounds perplexed. Eddie doesn’t understand what’s so perplexing.

“I was with a guy last night and when I left his dorm this morning, it was cold, so he gave me this sweater.”

“You slept with some guy and then took his clothes?”

Eddie glances up from his laptop, finally. Richie looks as perplexed as he sounds, maybe even a little jealous, but it’s nothing to take note of. “What’s wrong with that? I saw you go upstairs with some girl at that party.”

“You saw that?” Richie’s red face and the hand that scratches at his neck are the key tells that he’s embarrassed. Eddie doesn’t care.

“It wasn’t just some guy,” he adds, with air quotes. “It was Arthur from my English class, so he’ll get his sweater back, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“You slept with Arthur from English? That pretty-pretty dude? With the freckles?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong with that? He’s nice. He’s good looking.”

“But isn’t that weird? You have to see him almost every day.”

“I see _you_ almost every day,” Eddie points out.

“It’s _different_.”

“If I recall correctly, it was you who made the ‘we’re not mutually exclusive’ rule. Am I not allowed to have sex with other people? Does this rule only apply to you?” Eddie asks.

Richie looks like he’s been slapped. “No,” he says. “Of course you’re allowed.” He fidgets with his glasses.

“Glad that’s settled.” Eddie goes back to fake-editing.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

“I’m positive, thank you, Richie.”

Richie clears his throat. He leaves.

(Later, Richie drops off a parfait anyways but doesn’t stick around. Eddie eats it, but only because Richie wasted money on it).

-

They haven’t slept with each other in two weeks. They’ve seen each other here and there, but Eddie keeps making excuses. He doesn’t know why that girl had bothered him so much, nor why Richie was being weird enough on his own. He honestly just wants them to either a) fuck away the tension or b) stop this all together and just go back to the way they were when they were kids. Nothing but friends, Eddie silently pining over his friend, Richie none the wiser.

There are a few problems with these wants, however:

In regards to a), fucking the tension away will do neither of them good, because Eddie knows he’ll find himself in the same situation weeks from now and he can’t keep doing this.

In regards to b), becoming Just Friends again will also do neither of them good because they’ve fucked. Eddie can’t just go back to being friends with someone whose moles and scars his fingers have mapped out by memory, nor someone who has seen the deepest, darkest parts of him. He can’t be Just Friends with Richie, because he’ll miss all the in-betweens: the fingers on his spine, in his hair, his mouth, the raw, spit-slicked grin Richie will shoot him after he pulls his shirt over his head and climbs into bed, the warmth of Richie’s bare chest against Eddie’s cheek, the calming thrum of his heart against Eddie’s ear.

How could he give that up?

He’ll just have to do the whole ‘we’re not dating but I’ll still kiss you and sleep with you and act like you’re my boyfriend but also sleep with women’ thing for now.

There’s another party tonight and Eddie is eager to go. It’s not that he’s eager to go to the party per se, just excited to take his mind off of things, maybe get laid. Arthur is going to be there. Eddie’s not looking to sleep with him again; he’s a genuinely nice person and has been talking to Eddie more since he stopped by a few days after to drop the crewneck off.

Besides, it might make Richie jealous.

The music is loud when Eddie walks in, something that’s teetering on the line between alright rap and mumbled horseshit. He feels nice, dressed in one of his big striped button-ups he’d gotten at a thrift store with some baggy jeans and sneakers. The short sleeves show off the single tattoo he has: a small bird with the italicized script _I couldn’t whisper when you needed it shouted_. It signifies not only his sole act of rebellion, but also a song he will always hold dear to his heart.

It was Richie who suggested it to him, naturally, him being a connoisseur of bad ideas (see: the multitude of stick and pokes he’d given himself at fourteen after listening to one too many MCR songs). They’d gone in almost a year ago before anything went down between them. Eddie had genuinely thought over the idea and had considered it not all bad, but as soon as he walked in, swamped Richie with a multitude of questions and statements which consisted of, but were not limited to the following:

_There are so many things that could go wrong. What if they don’t use sterile needles? I could get Hep B or C. There’s a chance I could get CMV or EBV or even worse: AIDS. I don’t want some stranger poking me with a fucking contaminated needle, Richie. I swear to god._

Richie had then taken the liberty of asking the tattoo artist the sterilization of the equipment and she assured him that they never reuse needles and everything is cleaned thoroughly with a disinfectant after every customer. It had put Eddie at ease, and he had completely agreed to the entirety of the situation. When he was getting the tattoo, he’d squeezed Richie’s hand so tight he was scared he’d break the bones. Then, seemingly after no time at all, the girl wiped away any ink and wrapped him up in cling-wrap before she told him he was done.

Now Eddie sits in on a couch with Arthur, nursing a vodka cranberry and fiddling with a loose thread on his pants. They’re talking about books, which is not unusual for them, but not the right kind of conversation for a place like this.

“...I mean, J.D. Salinger is one of my favourite authors. The guy was so cool. He just kinda disappeared off the face of the earth for a while because he didn’t want fame. And he wrote, like only one actual novel yet remains a popular author today.” Arthur is from Louisiana originally, and his voice sounds like honey over gravel. Eddie finds it hard not to be attracted to him, with his tan skin and freckles and green eyes and thick curls and the fact that he definitely speaks French, with his father of West-Indian descent and his mother Cajun. Who wouldn’t be? He’s like the promise of a bed after long days of work.

Thing is, Eddie is attracted to him but only in a conventional kind of way. He’s nice, sure. Eddie likes looking at him. He likes holding conversations with him, but he doesn’t have a deep gut feeling of want when he looks Arthur’s way. Since they’ve already slept together, the novelty’s sort of worn off. He’s just a guy. A friend now, maybe. Eddie looks Arthur over, still picking at his pants.

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees. “He’s great. I love his writing style. I haven’t read much of his work, save for a few short stories and The Catcher in the Rye, but I do have to admit he’s classic.”

They quiet, for a moment, sipping their drinks. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” Eddie says.

“What’s going on with you and that Richie kid?”

Eddie stops picking. His heart starts to do that off-beat thump thump-thump thump-thump thump like it always does at the suggestion of him and Richie having something. “Nothing is going on,” Eddie says, like he has any time anyone questioned them, which has admittedly not been very many times. “Richie is straight, I’m gay, nothing could happen.” But he says straight with that tone that implies things have happened.

Arthur hums. Now, as if on cue, Richie walks in. Eddie sees him, but Richie hasn’t noticed yet.

“Why?” Eddie says, tone switched to playful. “You looking to date?” he’s kidding and hopes Arthur gets that.

“No,” Arthur chuckles. “No offence. It’s just…” he trailed off, looking contemplative. “You, um. You said his name. When we... you know.”

Eddie just looks at him. He’s so shocked, he doesn’t know what to say. He manages to blurt, “I’m sorry.”

Arthur shrugs. “S’okay. Y’said it real’ quiet. I wasn’t offended or anything, to be honest, I was too drunk to care. You were too drunk to even realize you’d said it. I ain’t gonna hold it against ya’ or anything.”

“That’s so embarrassing,” Eddie says. Not only did he say another person’s name during sex, but he implied that he has feelings for Richie. No one is supposed to know that. He even tries to keep himself from knowing it. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats. “God.”

Arthur reaches out his hand and touches Eddie’s shoulder. “Really,” he says, “it’s fine.”

“Hey,” comes a voice over the music. Eddie can tell without looking it’s Richie. He feels a wave of mild distaste wash over him. He’s not in the mood for any more of this awkward spite-filled bullshit.

“What’s up, Richie?” Eddie asks, ingenuine.

“I want you to stop this,” he says, gesturing wildly between Arthur and Eddie. They look at each other, perplexed. Eddie is already mad when he looks back.

“You have _no_ dictation over who I spend my time with, Richie. I never stop you from seeing women, you shouldn’t be stopping me from being with my friend.”

“I didn’t sleep with her,” Richie says. Eddie’s not sure whether or not to believe him. “I left. I couldn’t even get it up. It was awful.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to stop,” Richie tells him. Eddie honestly has no idea what he’s talking about. It must be clear on his face, because Richie huffs a sigh and says, “Fuck the fucking rules, Eddie, I’m tired of them. I’m tired of faking things. I’m fucking sick and tired of _not exclusive._”

“What are you saying, Rich?”

“I _want_ mutual exclusivity.”

Eddie, ever so bright, still does not get it.

Richie, in all his stupidity, pulls Eddie up from the couch and kisses him. In front of the whole party.

Eddie is frozen, his arms stiff at his sides. He’s not entirely sure how to react. It’s not that he’s shocked Richie is kissing him, no, they’ve done that more times than he could count on all his appendages. Eddie is shocked that he’s finally doing it in the open like this. Up until now, Richie didn’t want to be anywhere near Eddie in public, because of how people might think of them, because people may think of Richie as anything but straight.

When Richie pulls away, Eddie looks him in the eyes and pulls him right back in.

Richie wants to be with him. Richie wants to _date_ Eddie. Eddie has been wanting this since he was sixteen years old and finally, it’s happening. There are no fireworks, no overall movie-ending sensation. But he feels right, for once. Pulling away, Richie says, “I like you so much you can’t even believe it, dude. Like, it’s fucking crazy, Eds. I’m sorry I’m such a dumbass.”

“I like you so much too,” Eddie laughs. “I have for a really long time. But I’ve got to ask: why here? Why now, in front of all these people? I hope you didn’t feel like you have to force yourself to come out for me.”

“God, no,” Richie tells him. “I realized when I saw how upset you were with me, that the people don’t matter. All that matters is you. We could be anywhere in the world-- a crowded bar, your dorm, fuck, even the backseat of my god damn Prius and it wouldn’t matter. All that would matter to me was you. I’m just too dumb to see that.”

“You’re not too dumb,” Eddie tells him. “We didn’t have it easy growing up, in fucktown, Maine. Internalized homophobia is a real thing and it’s not your fault that you felt and acted the way you did. I’m not going to hold that against you. And to be honest, I was just glad that I could have you. Also, sorry I slept with Arthur. It was literally because I was drunk and sad and petty. ”

“All good. If anything, we’re even,” Richie says. “So whaddya say, Spaghetti? Be my boyfriend? Actually?”

“Yeah, dumbass, I’ll be your boyfriend, _actually_.”

“Nice,” Richie says, like he’s won something. At this moment, Eddie remembers that Arthur is still sitting on the couch. When he turns, Arthus is smiling knowingly up at him.

“Hey,” he says. “No hard feelings?”

“None.” Arthur shakes his head. “We’re cool.”

Eddie turns back to Richie. “Want to ditch?”

“You’re in my head, Eddiekins.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is meh and i don't like the ending but i hope you enjoyed!! thanks for sticking around!


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